The touch of the rope fired the filly to a supreme effort; she lunged forward; Captain Jack set himself for the shock—­he threw her cold, full length, in the soft mud; instantly the little stallion sprang forward to give the mare slack, she came to her feet, squealing piteously, and plunged desperately ahead—­again Captain Jack braced himself for the jar and put her down, “It’s hell, Little Girl,” the Ramblin’ Kid said with a catch in his throat; “but you’ve got to learn!” The third time the maverick tested the rope and the third time Captain Jack threw her in a helpless heap.  That time when she got to her feet she stood trembling in every muscle until Captain Jack came up to her side and the Ramblin’ Kid reached out and laid his hand on the beautiful mane.  She had learned.  Never again would the wonderful creature tighten a rope on her neck.

Trailing the filly, the Ramblin’ Kid forced her back toward the Cimarron, into its raging flood, multiplied a hundredfold by the torrential rain of the night; side by side she and Captain Jack swam the stream, and in the gray dawn, while the Quarter Circle KT still slept, he turned the mare and Captain Jack into the circular corral.  He removed the saddle from Captain Jack, took the rope from the filly’s neck, threw the horses some hay and on the dry ground under the shed by the corral, lay down and went to sleep.

For fourteen hours, without rest, the Ramblin’ Kid had ridden.

The sun was up when Sing Pete electrified the Quarter Circle KT into life and action by the jangle of the iron triangle sending out the breakfast call.

Old Heck stepped to the door of the bunk-house and looked out across the valley.  The Cimarron roared sullenly beyond the meadow.  The lower field was a lake of muddy water, backed up from the gorge below.  He glanced toward the circular corral.

“What th’—­Who left horses up last night?” he asked of the cowboys dressing sleepily inside the bunk-house.

“Nobody,” Parker answered for the group.

Skinny Rawlins came to the door.  “It’s Captain Jack,” he said, “and—­and darned if th’ Ramblin’ Kid ain’t got the filly!”

“Aw, he couldn’t have caught her last night,” Bert Lilly said.

“Well, she’s there,” Skinny retorted, “somebody’s corraled her—­that’s certain!”

Hurriedly dressing, the cowboys crowded out of the bunk-house and down to the circular corral.  The Gold Dust maverick leaped to the center of the enclosure as the group drew near and stood with head up, eyes flashing and nostrils quivering, a perfect picture of defiance and fear.  The swim across the river had washed the mud from her mane and sides and she was as clean as if she had been brushed.

“Lord, she’s a beauty!” Chuck Slithers exclaimed.

“Sure is—­be hell to ride, though!” Bert commented.  “Wonder where the Ramblin’ Kid is—­”

“S-h-hh!  Yonder he is,” Charley Saunders said, observing the figure under the shed, “—­asleep.  Come on away and let him rest!”